Welcomed Back Again
by kathleensmiles
Summary: "She hadn't been overly vigilant in keeping track of the Norths progress as the conflict dragged on, even while Ed had been on the front. It had seemed so distant, the fighting, the cannons, the bloodshed. But now men- boys really- were being drafted left and right." AU Civil War prompt for Xony on tumblr. Rated for language and references to abuse. Please review.


**Authors Note:  
So this is for Xonys AU Civil War tumblr prompt.  
Basically Daryl and Carol meet during the Civil War era and eventually Daryl goes to war and all Carol can do is pray.  
The format is a little weird for me, I'm doing it in a timeskip format- every line break skips to another point in Daryl and Carol's relationship.  
First time doing something like this so be sure to tell me what ya think.  
I also apologize in advance for any historical inaccuracies.**** Hope ya'll enjoy!**_  
_

_A man may fight and not be slain.  
A man may court a pretty girl,  
and perhaps be welcomed back again.  
-The Parting Glass  
_

The sun was hot that day, beating mercilessly on Carol in her coarse black dress, high, starched collar and thin, gauzy veil both misted with sweat.  
She felt strange in her widows clothes, wearing the funeral dress of grief and mourning- mainly because she felt neither of those emotions in the slightest.  
There were emotions attached to Edgar's death, sure.  
Surprise, astonishment, the sense of a heaviness leaving her shoulders, some insurmountable weight just suddenly gone.  
It was as if she'd regained the ability to breathe.  
Well, it would be like that if the heavy black dresses she was now expected to wear weren't so suffocating.  
The thick material was almost dragging her down in the street as she joined the ceremony, a party of sorts trying to boost morale and prepare them for the inevitable- the war making its way into their hometown.  
She hadn't been overly vigilant in keeping track of the Norths progress as the conflict dragged on, even while Ed had been on the front.  
It had seemed so distant, the fighting, the cannons, the bloodshed. But now men- boys really- were being drafted left and right.  
The very air seemed thick with the stench of battle and- though no one dared speak it- it was apparent that the tides were not turning in their favor.  
The whole ceremony seemed ridiculous to her, a horrible waste of lives as calvary men and veterans tried to mystify teenage boys with tales of the spoils of war. False stories of good pay, a comfortable tent keeping them warm and two solid meals a day.  
She was unable to surpress a scoff of disgust as one of the advertisers crouched down, gesturing to an especially thin boy- face sunken and hollow from hunger, clothes nothing but tatters- talking about how impressive and heroic he would appear in uniform.  
The child seemed amazed, drinking it all in without question. Carol knew there was nothing particularly heroic about men in soldiers uniforms.  
Edgar had remained the same cowardly, selfish man both in and out of his uniform. He'd died from a shot in the back, or so she'd been told.  
Retreating no doubt, looking out only for himself.  
She wouldn't come to these doomed displays of faith to the Confederate cause if she felt she could get away with it. But it was what was expected of her.  
It would be a sign of tremendous disrespect to refuse to show- since she was a soldiers widow. She chuckled bitterly.  
As if Edgar had ever treated her with anything resembling respect, or done anything to deserve hers.  
She'd obeyed and feared the man, it was safer that way, but she never respected him. Never had she stooped that low.  
Until now, because he was dead and the fact that his corpse was six feet under seemed to change the local perception of him. Now she had to play pretend.  
A man ran by then, knocking her down and out of her thoughts, on to the dusty, crowded and dirt packed street.

"Man oughta watch where he's goin' 'er sumthin'," a deep, husky voice resonated from above, tanned and muscular arm reaching down to help her.

The man appeared to be in his late twenties, early thirties perhaps at the eldest. He was unshaven, hair a mess of dark fly-aways and dirt smudged across his cheek and forehead. He was under dressed, unlike the other men who chose suits and hats for the occasion he merely wore a pair of torn overalls and a simple gray shirt underneath. Nonetheless he was attractive, not needed the decoration like the others to improve his looks.  
His jaw was strong, eyes intelligent and a sharp, piercing blue. Dusting herself off, she did her best to regain her composure.

"Thank you very much for your kindness mister...?"

"Dixon," he replied, eyes on his boots, stammering. "Daryl Dixon Miss, er, Ma'am, um-"

"Peletier, Carol Peletier sir."

* * *

Daryl doesn't know who started the kiss- couldn't say for certain even if someone paid him to figure it out.  
The visit had started like any other, nothing particularly memorable about it. They hadn't done much in the way of talking but they rarely did.  
Neither of them had ever felt the need for small talk or useless words around each other. Quiet companionship had worked just fine for over a year now.  
Time spent together came easier without that, silence was simpler for him, comfortable. Words were just a complication anyways, they didn't need them.  
They understood each other just fine without empty conversation. He does recall that the dimming sunlight was just barely flickering through the dingy kitchen window, that the way she stood in the light as she fixed him some coffee cast a pink glow around her figure. He can remember her smiling at him.  
Remembers thinking- for perhaps the thousandth time since meeting her- how lovely she looks, doe-eyed, delicate, content.  
Remembers catching himself and glancing away, noticing that his legs had taken him towards her without his consent.  
She'd looked at him then, and he'd looked back and it seemed as though that moment would stretch on forever until suddenly there was only lips and warm mouths, hands entangled in each others hair. Panting, moaning into each others mouths, exploring each other, nipping and tugging, tongues interweaving.  
They were melded together, practically fused, neither of them letting go any time soon.  
Daryl still doesn't know who started the kiss, but that makes it no less memorable.

* * *

"Leaving?" Carol gasped, eyes wide with shock at the news.

Daryl nodded, voice barely above a heightened, raspy whisper. "Yeah. Leavin' wit' t' next group 'a troops, sumtime next week 'er so."

She shook her head back and forth insistently, shaking slightly, eyes tearing up, overwrought. "No. No, you're not going."

"Carol-" he started, reaching to put a hand on her shoulder, which she slapped away.

"No. You can't. I won't let you." She took a deep breath, only to have it degrade into sobs. "For chrissakes Daryl don't you know how many men have been lost just this month?"

His fist slammed against the table, making her jump. " 'Course I know! Merle's been missin' fer weeks now! Ya think I dunno the risks? I gotta do sumthin'!"

"What if you don't find him? What if-"

"Don't care 'bout the wha' ifs," he snarled. "He's my brother an' I ain't lettin' 'im disappear. Ain't nobody gon' look fer 'im but me, can't jus' sit 'round here!"

She took another deep, sobbing breath, chest heaving. "Daryl please, I-I don't want to bury you... I-I can't, I just can't handle that, please-"

His hands found her shoulders then, clasping them, keeping her teary, blurred gaze on him.  
"That ain't happenin'. I wouldn't do tha' to ya Carol, ain't gon' leave ya."

"It wouldn't be up to you," she whispered, resting her head against his chest, the energy to lift it gone.

"Don't matter, it ain't happenin', I promise ya."

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I don't," he insisted, a slightly amused tone entering his voice.

She let out a tired chuckle.

"I'll always come back t' ya Carol, even when ya get sick a' me. Ain't no place I'd rather go."

* * *

The church was empty, as it often was this late in the evening. Carol crept in silently, choosing a pew near the back, clutching the little gold cross in her hands.  
It had been a week now, since he'd left. A week of waking up, panting and sweaty from nightmares.  
Of tossing and turning uncomfortably, the bed cold, empty-feeling without his steady warmth beside her. She hadn't eaten or slept much recently.  
She hoped he was eating, that there was food for him, that he was safe, that he would stay that way. She hoped he'd find a way to write her. She missed him.  
Her hands trembled as she folded them, head bowed, fingers over the cross, eyes occasionally flitting to the statue of Christ at the front of the room.

"Please Lord, please just..Just bring him home, don't let them hurt him, bring him home safe and just..."she sniffled, feeling the tell-tale wetness on her cheeks. "just let him come back to me. In Jesus name Amen."

Dabbing her cheeks, she put the cross around her neck again, exiting her pew, walking slowly out of the church.  
It was all she could do.


End file.
